


Unreal

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Series: Unforgiven [8]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 11:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14495976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: None of this was real, so he needed to focus on the only thing that was.





	Unreal

**Author's Note:**

> Dick is obviously Nightwing and masked up throughout this, even in the apartment. The ‘demons in his ear’ is his communicator to Batman and the family. The driver never sees Dick, or hears Damian shout his name, so his identity is still safe. Sorry this is like 50 years late. A few days after Unacceptable.

_“…I think it’s time you and I talked.”_

He kept that in his mind, that sentence. Kept repeating it. To himself, out loud. In any way he could.

Because he couldn’t. He couldn’t die until he talked to Tim. Until he saw his little brother again. He couldn’t let the fear toxin win until he at least begged for forgiveness in person.

And it shouldn’t have happened, this. He’d been vaccinated against every strand of toxin, serum and poison known to man. But Jonathan Crane was still smarter than them, objectively. Kept easily making more, differently, thanks to that degree of his. He was still a doctor, even if he was using it for evil.

But still – Dick was trained. Dick was used to this. Yes, he’d been hit. Yes, he was affected. But he was still lucid enough to be aware of what it was. Knew the hallucinations around him of blood and death and loneliness were fake.

He just had to keep Tim’s voice in his mind.

The gas still was doing its job though, and Dick fought against if with everything he had as he ran down the sidewalk. With every repetition of Tim’s decision, his voice was warped. Angry, sad, cold, distant. But Dick had to keep it real. He had to keep Tim’s voice as what it truly was on that phone call.

_“…I think it’s time you and I talked.”_

Tired, hesitant, warm. That’s what Tim’s voice was. Not angry. Not distant. Tim wasn’t giving up on him, toxin. He _wasn’t_. He was giving him a chance. A chance he didn’t deserve, but a chance. And he had to make it. So you can’t lie to him, toxin. He had to beat you and see his brother. And he would; there was nothing you could do about it.

He stumbled in his run, slammed into a brick wall. He looked up into the rain, but couldn’t see street signs. Just saw demons overhead, the same demons that were yelling in his ear, trying to talk over Tim.

But Dick smiled, because they couldn’t. His brother’s voice was louder. His chance at redemption was louder.

He looked back to the sidewalk. It was covered in blood and dead bodies. People he knew. Donna, Wally, Bruce, Clark, Roy, Dinah. But they weren’t real. Of _course_ they weren’t. So he splashed through the blood. Kept on running.

Beside the thought of Tim’s voice, he realized he didn’t have a destination. Or, at least, his mind didn’t. His body seemed to know where it was going. And even if it didn’t, Dick was too weak to tell his body to stop. So he just let it go.

Because along with seeing Tim again – he still had to escape the bad guys. He’d almost forgotten about that part.

Still, as more time went on, his body started to wear down, and the pain of his muscles began to be louder than the shrieks and whines around him. Began to appear in his eyes, literally. Bubble letters in front of him appeared with every stomp of his foot. _Ow! Pain! Hurt! Ouchie! Stop! You’re killing me! You’re killing yourself! Pain! Pain!_ ** _PAIN!_ **

“Tim…” He breathed out, and his lungs ached. But he couldn’t stop. He had to get there, even though he didn’t know where _there_ was. He had to go. He had to escape. He: “…gotta talk to Tim…my…”

He stumbled again, tripped over a curb and went sprawling into the gutter. He heard the blood swish around him as his spine slammed against the pavement. Felt it hit him, but knew he was dry. Knew, if there was liquid, that it was the dirty rainwater of Gotham City.

His body still wanted to move. His mind was still supplying him with fake terror and images. His heart was in overdrive. He couldn’t breathe. The blood-water rain hitting his face was not cooling him. But he had to go. He had to-

“Grayson?”

The voice was like an angel, almost as sweet as Tim’s and that hope that he could still fix one of his greatest mistakes.

His head jerked to the side, face bouncing off the curb he’d tripped over, and it was like magic.

There was a bubble in front of him. A normal scene untouched by the demons and death and shrieks. There was no blood on the ground, or falling from the sky. It was just rain. Just water hitting an umbrella, and snapping off the side of an open car door.

And under the umbrella was his youngest brothers. Was Damian and Tim.

It was Damian who had spoken. Damian, who was stepping away from the car he was about to get into, out of the safety of the umbrella, and Tim’s arm.

Dick said his brother’s name. Or tried to. He felt his mouth move, but all he heard was a rasping gurgle, and suddenly Damian was running to him.

“Grayson,” Damian whispered, first jumping from the sidewalk to drop to his knees in the street. There was another splash, and this time Dick felt it. Felt the water – not blood, not blood, _not blood_ – hit him on the chest. An arm wrapped around the back of his neck, and suddenly he was being held to a tiny chest. “Grayson, breathe. Please, breathe for me.”

Dick blinked, and looked up into the sky again as his body relaxed into the hold.

Oh. This is where he was going.

Tim and Damian’s apartment building.

“Grayson, what happened?” Damian hissed, brushing the water or blood or vomit – whatever – off his face. He felt Damian’s hand run down his body, and hit the injuries that were very much real. “Your eyes are dilated. Your heart rate is spiking…”

“Fear toxin.” Dick’s head spun around on instinct. Tim and his umbrella was standing over him. His hair was sticking to his face – he was holding the umbrella over him and Damian instead of himself. And the fear told him Tim would look furious. _Be_ furious. Would hate him and leave him here to die, while dragging Damian away from him forever. But instead, Tim was still in that bubble of normal. Still Dick’s saving grace in this madness, along with Damian. His eyes were calculating and thoughtful. But most of all – they were worried. “It looks like he’s been hit with one hell of a dose, too.”

“Sirs!” Dick glanced past Tim’s bent body. A driver had appeared out of the car. And objectively, Dick knew it was just a man. But right now, he looked like a werewolf, with blood and bits of meat hanging from his teeth. “The gala is starting soon. The two of you cannot be late again-”

“We’re not going.” Tim said over his shoulders. “Send our regards.”

“What?” The driver spluttered. It came out as an inhuman growl, and his eyes glowed red. Dick felt himself give out another groan in panic. “B-but Mr. Drake, you said…what…what are you boys doing over there…?”

“I said we’re not going.” Tim stood and turned to face the driver. “Send my sincerest apologies to the board, but something’s come up.”

“But-”

“It’s a family matter.” Tim said simply. Dick heard Damian murmuring to him, but couldn’t make out the words. He did notice now, though, that Damian was dressed nicely. As was Tim. In their fanciest tuxedos. “Now, I apologize for dragging you out here on such a terrible night, but please go.”

There was a pause, and then a huff. Then the sound of a door slamming closed, followed by a car driving away.

Suddenly there was a hand on his face, gentle and warm. And Tim’s voice – his real voice – was right there.

“We need to get him inside.” Tim hummed softly. Instantly there was another arm around his neck, and one slipping under his knees. “I’ll carry him. You take the umbrella and get the doors.”

Damian’s presence disappeared, and Dick almost cried, because that probably meant Damian was being taken from him forever. But then there was a noise, and he was being lifted, slumping into Tim’s chest.

“Don’t fall asleep just yet, Dick.” Tim grunted as they started to move. “You’re dead weight enough. If you become _actual_ dead weight, I don’t know how we’re going to get you upstairs safely.”

Dick felt himself let out a sob as he reached up and clung to Tim’s collar. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Tim. I know I fucked up. I-I know…”

“Later.” Tim said softly. “Let’s just get your fixed up for now, okay Dick?”

Under the continuing wails and shouts that his mind was supplying, he heard the ding of an elevator, then the sound of their doors opening. He didn’t feel Tim step in, but he felt Damian gently grab his hand, and hold it as the lift moved upwards.

And even though he was trembling, from panic and fear and the rain, he felt a sense of peace wash over him, under the devils and demons. Because here he was, with Tim and Damian.

And that was all he _wanted_.

He closed his eyes, in what felt was a blink, but when he reopened them, they were no longer in the elevator. In fact, they were already back in the loft, and Tim was lowering him onto a bed.

“Go call Bruce.” Tim said to Damian. Damian nodded and sprinted away as Tim grabbed a first aid kit and sat on the edge of the bed, placing it on his lap and opening it. Dick opened his mouth, but Tim immediately waved him off. Smiled, as he hummed, “ _Later_ , Dick. When the drugs wear off.”

Dick allowed himself a small whimper before following Tim’s instructions. Settling back as Tim began to clean and stitch everything up.

It was only five, maybe ten, minutes later when Damian suddenly called from the kitchen.

“Drake!” Damian yelled. Dick thought he heard a roar from a wild animal after it, but squeezed his eyes shut against the idea. “We’ve got a problem!”

Tim smiled and rolled his eyes. “Be right back, Dick. Try to get some sleep in the meantime, okay?”

Dick didn’t respond. Kept his eyes closed, and took a deep breath, trying to drown out the toxin’s tricks. And he didn’t have to bring up a memory of Tim’s voice this time.

Because he could hear him talking in the kitchen…talking to Damian…Damian talking back…Damian’s dog barking…suddenly a crash…

Wait…

His brows furrowed and he tried to open his eyes, but it was already too late, and he was tumbling into darkness as he heard his brothers shout out.

~~

When he came to, he was already lurching upwards, like his body was completing an unfinished thought.

“Tim!” He screamed. Silence followed, and, as he jumped from the bed, it was an afterthought that the toxin appeared to have worn off. No more shrieks. No more wailing. No more demons and blood and death.

Or at least, no more hallucinations of it.

“Damian!” He continued, stumbling into the living room. He froze in the doorway, heart dropping at the scene.

It was ransacked. Everything was upturned or broken. T here were bullet holes and knife marks. The couch cushions were slashed. Damian’s tuxedo jacket was on the floor. Tim’s torn bowtie was on the kitchen island. Titus was curled up in the corner, covered with a blanket, bandages already across his legs and body, looking haunted.

There was blood on the floor. A large blotch of it. Batman was staring down at it.

“What happened?” Dick near begged. He couldn’t get closer. He _couldn’t_. “Whose…whose is that?”

 _Please be the bad guy’s._ He prayed. _Please be Crane’s, or one of his thug’s_.

“Damian’s.” Oracle whispered from the communicator in his ear. Batman’s tightening fist confirmed her statement. “Security footage shows he took a few hits from a knife trying to block the hallway that led to you.” A pause. “…Tim’s is in the kitchen, and there’s a trail leading back to the window. He was shot in the leg.”

“…No.” Dick breathed.

“It was Crane.” Bruce said monotonously, knowing Dick already assumed that. “You weren’t able to get far enough away in your state, and they were able to follow you. Saw the boys bring you in. Came in through the window to get you. Tim and Damian tried to protect you, so Crane took them instead.”

“He _took_ them?!” Dick demanded.

“Well, they’re not here. And there’s…there’s no _bodies_.” Bruce muttered, like just the idea of his sons being dead pained him. “So it’s the only theory we have.”

“Why?” Dick continued. “What would he gain?”

“Well, they helped you.” Barbara said thoughtfully. “And Scarecrow’s always looking for new test subjects. Not to mention, I think Crane ended up recognizing them as Bruce Wayne’s sons. Might get something he wants for their safe return.”

“No.” Dick hissed. “No, he won’t get _shit_ but the worst ass kicking I can give.”

Bruce looked up now. Pitifully said, “Dick…”

“I know. I _know_ , okay?” Dick snapped in frustration. In pure and blatant fear. “I know this is my fault. I know they were taken and hurt because of me, but I’m going to go after them right now, and I’m going to _fix_ it.”

And he tried to make it look like he was kneeling, but really, he was collapsing. Falling beside that puddle of his littlest brother’s blood – spilled to protect him, even when he was estranged, because he’d hurt them already, before all this happened. Because he’d abandoned them.

Well, he wouldn’t abandon them now. At this point, forgiveness and amends were the last thing on his mind. The only thing on his mind was getting his brothers back, even if it was the last thing he ever did. Even if they still hated him afterwards.

He reached out, and pressed his fingers into the blood. The oversaturated carpet seeped, and red ran over his gloves. He let his mind wander back to his toxin-induced state, and the image of Tim and Damian under that umbrella, untouched by the darkness.

He curled his now-bloody hand into a fist and whispered angrily to himself: “I’m going to fix this.”


End file.
